Lillies of the Valley
by lastfingersofleaf
Summary: <html><head></head>Carlos is a teenage crack addict with a tragic life and infant sister to care for. Then, he meets a guy named Logan who wants to help him out. Warnings for drugs and rape. Carlos/Logan</html>
1. Roses

_A/N: warnings for implied rape, child abuse, and implied drug use._

(***)

Footsteps echoed down the hall and Carlos burrowed deeper under the blankets. He lay silent, listening, hoping that they would pass right by.

The doorknob twitched and light spilled into the room.

"Hey boys," Dad said, smiling. His eyes were bloodshot and tinged an angry shade of pink. There was dried blood under his nose and white powdered along his upper lip. It almost looked like he'd just finished a glass of milk, only Carlos knew there wasn't any milk left in the fridge and there hadn't been any milk for days. "I'm a little short on cash."

Juan got out of bed and Carlos squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see what would happen next. He would have to hear it. That would be enough.

Dad didn't take Juan and leave like usual. He came and sat down on the end of Carlos' bed. Carlos was careful not to flinch when Dad's hand slowly traveled up the covers and gently cupped the curve of his ass, fingers kneading and stroking, sliding down to try and press between his thighs.

He kept his legs tightly closed. "I need your help tonight, Carlitos."

"I'll help you," Juan offered himself like always. Juan never let Carlos take his place, no matter what. "Carlos is only twelve. He's too young. You know I'm better."

Juan never choked around their father's dick, no matter how deep their dad would go. Juan never cried, he never said no, all Juan could ever say was _yesyesyes_ in a convincing voice. Juan had talent, everyone said so. He was the special one.

There was laughter in the living room and the low rumble of male voices.

"Young," Dad laughed, high on a bizarre, chemical energy, and dragged Carlos out from beneath the sheets. "Is exactly what I need."

"No!" Juan yelled, yelled like Dad _hated_, and so he got a knee to the belly and an elbow to the face. His nose gushed blood all over the rug. Their mom would be mad about that. She hated having to steam clean the rugs.

"Go to sleep, Juan." Dad pulled Carlos along and shut the bedroom door. The lights were on in the living room. There were four men sitting together on the couch.

"Oooh," The biggest man sighed; grinning. "I think you were right Garcia, he _is_ better than money."

"I can't believe something so sweet looking is related to you." The second one, a skinny man with short blond hair, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. Inside it was filled with white dust that could be sugar, only it wasn't. If it were only sugar Carlos would still be in bed.

"Do we have a deal?" Dad was trembling, twitching, shifting his weight from the balls to the heels of his feet.

"Deal." The blond man tossed his dad the bag. His dad caught it in both hands and cradled it close to his chest. "Now get that ass over here, boy."

Carlos looked up at his dad.

"You heard him, Carlos. Fair is fair."

After they were finished, the couch was soaked with spunk and blood and tears. Dad was going to have to get the couch cleaned before Mom came home. The couch was a gift from their grandmother. She'd be furious if it was ruined.

Dad watched him limp down the hall, way off in his drug and fantasy land. Carlos thought it had to be pretty good there if Dad was willing to trade him and Juan for a few grams of coke or meth. It must be nice to float out among imaginary stars way above the earth where nothing and no one could hurt you.

The lights in his room were on and Juan was sitting cross legged on the floor, his back against the wall. Carlos limped past him and crawled into bed.

"I'm sorry," Juan whispered and his voice was flat. Juan didn't sound like himself. He didn't sound like anything. "I'm sorry."

(***)


	2. Lilacs

**This chapter has a warning for suicide.**

* * *

><p>Carlos dreamed about bloody rivers with banks made of white sand. It wasn't sand though, not once he got close. It was coke that stretched on for miles. Coke was framing that mighty river of blood. Carlos thought the blood was his, but it was only a dream, so he couldn't really tell.<p>

A hand pet his hair gently. Carlos jerked awake, scared and ready to cry out in pain. Sometimes when Dad thought he was hurt too much he'd leave him alone. Dad would just take Juan instead. Carlos felt bad those times, but Juan always told him that he was okay with it, really. He was used to it and he was happy to take it for Carlos, each and every time.

"Don't!" He yelled, then relaxed when he saw it was just Juan. "What are you doing, Juan?"

"Shhh," Juan said, very softly. Too softly. Soft like something dead. "I'm sorry, Carlos. I'm so sorry I didn't protect you."

_I know_ he wanted to say, but Juan's hand stroking his hair felt nice, and he was sleepy and hurting, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes. It wasn't Juan's fault. Juan had tried to protect him. Juan had told Dad to take him. Juan always asked Dad to take him, even when they knew it was going to be really bad. When Carlos broke Dad's autographed Dodgers plate once, Juan said he did it, and Carlos couldn't look when Juan said it, and afterwards he cried as he listened to the sounds coming from his parents' room. Juan couldn't walk right for a week after that and for a month every time he had to go to the bathroom he would scream and cry and bleed. But he always smiled, always told Carlos it was worth it. And maybe, to big brothers, that kind of thing was worth it. As much as Carlos loved Juan, he knew he could never do that, no matter how much he wanted to. He wasn't strong enough.

When Carlos woke up that morning, the sun was filtering through cracks in the blinds and the sky was cold and gray. The apartment was quiet, so his Dad was either gone or sleeping off his high in the bedroom. No matter which he was doing, he wouldn't be around for the rest of the day. That meant Carlos and Juan could watch cartoons and be safe for a little while.

"Juan," Carlos said, hissing in pain because walking made his asshole feel like it was on fire. He knew he was hurt really bad inside, but it would go away eventually. He would just have to not think about it until then. "Juan wake up."

Juan didn't wake up.

Juan didn't wake up because his bed was covered in blood. It was soaked, so soaked it hadn't even started to dry. Juan's throat was cut deep enough for Carlos to see a pink tube in his throat. Juan's face was cut up too, from one cheek all the way to the other. It looked like he'd made one giant, bloody smile with all of his face. "Juan!" He screamed, placing his hands on his brother's chest.

Juan was cold as ice and his heart wasn't beating. He was all stiff and cool, so stiff Carlos couldn't even peel the kitchen knife out of his hand. His muscles were frozen like he was made out of snow and stone. "Juan!" He screamed again, this time so loud that his Dad woke up and came running into the room with his belt, thinking that he and Juan were playing.

"Oh shit." Dad dropped the belt onto the floor. "Oh fuck, what the fuck are we going to tell your mother?"

Carlos wanted to hit his Dad. He wanted to punch him right in the face and then in the dick. He wanted to beat his Dad until he cared. Juan was _dead_. Strong and beautiful and invincible and amazing Juan was dead. Juan who had always taken care of him. Carlos' best friend in the whole entire world was gone.

Carlos crawled onto Juan's bloody bed and put his brother's head in his lap. He pet Juan's hair like Juan had done for him earlier. Juan had done it because that was his way of saying goodbye.

"You did a good job." Carlos sobbed and it felt like his heart was shattering to pieces inside his chest. "You protected me when no one else even tried." Juan's hair was crunchy and gross with dried blood but Carlos kept petting it anyways. It felt weird underneath his hand.

Carlos fell asleep with Juan's head in his lap while he waited for Dad to call the police. He dreamed of the river again, of the cocaine, but this time he knew that the blood wasn't his.

It was Juan's.


	3. Daisies

**Warning for drug use.**

* * *

><p>Carlos woke up in his parents' bedroom, in their bed. The door was shut and out in the living room he could hear the sound of the carpet cleaner and the TV. He walked down the hall, slow because it hurt, and noticed yellow police tape sealing the entrance to his and Juan's room (only his room now, Juan didn't have any need for it). He wondered if people really did go to Heaven like some of the kids at his school believed. He didn't think so, but he hoped that maybe Juan was somewhere better, even if that somewhere better was just being dead. It might be peaceful, in a weird way, to sleep forever and only have nice, happy dreams.<p>

"Hey, there's my little buddy." When he wasn't high Dad could be okay. Not often, but sometimes. Carlos had good memories of his Dad. His Dad took him and Juan fishing once, coached their baseball team for a year, and Carlos remembered being young, really small, and his Dad would give him rides on his shoulders and his Dad wasn't like _that_ yet and everything was great. Then things stopped and his Dad changed. "I got the couch all nice and clean, come sit. It's a little wet, but come, come." Dad patted the cushion next to him. Carlos didn't move. Sometimes Dad acted kind before he tried to fuck him. He acted normal before the pants came off and Carlos would watch the plaster in the ceiling, the flicker of the florescent lights.

"Did the police take Juan's body away?" Dad was watching the evening news. No one said anything about Juan's death. Carlos supposed that no one thought Juan's life was very important. Their Dad never had.

"Yeah. They wanted to do an autopsy, but I told them no. The cause of death is pretty clear. I called your mom, she wants to cremate him." He couldn't bear the thought of his beloved brother being burned up like a piece of paper put into a fire. It was too terrible to think about. He couldn't bring himself to think about the alternative either. If he had to watch them lower Juan's body into the ground, he was almost sure that the sadness would kill him. It would break his heart and poison his bones. He'd fall apart at the seams. There was no one to stitch him together anymore. Juan had been the only one who cared.

"I want him back," Carlos said and then he started to cry. The grief had built up inside him, like water behind a dam, and now it was rushing out. There was so much he didn't know if he'd ever be able to stop. He would just cry and cry until all the water inside him was gone and he died of dehydration. He would shrivel up like the flower on the window sill that hadn't been watered in a month. "I miss Juan."

"Aw, don't cry." Dad nudged him with his elbow. It only seemed to push out more tears. "Carlos." Dad nudged him again, this time harder. Carlos knew he should listen, because Dad wasn't the kind of person prone to violence, but that didn't mean he wouldn't hit Carlos every once in awhile when he really got on his Dad's nerves. Dad punched Juan in the mouth once when he was eight because he couldn't stop whimpering. It had turned out that Juan had appendicitis. Mom had taken him to the hospital and when the doctor's asked about his bloody lip, Carlos had told Dad's version of the truth. Carlos had hurt Juan while they were wrestling. Boys would be boys. "Carlos," Dad said again and Carlos waited for the impact of his Dad's fist. He didn't get it. Instead Dad gave him a soft hug and pressed Carlos' face into his shoulder. "Things are gonna be fine, I always liked you better. Juan was getting too old."

"I hate you," he said it for the first time to his Dad and he meant it, each and every word.

"You're just upset, stay here. I know what will cheer you right up." Dad got up and went into his bedroom. Carlos sucked back leaky snot and tears. He had to try to stop crying. Juan wouldn't want him to cry. Juan was the one who had it a hundred times worse than him. Carlos was lucky compared to his brother. "Here we go."

Dad had a small needle in his hand. Carlos didn't know how watching his Dad get high was going to make him feel any better. When Dad was high he liked to fuck and now Carlos was the only one around. He hurt too badly inside. If Dad tried to do him, he was sure he'd rip to shreds.

"I'm going back to bed."

"Shhh, Carlos." Dad grabbed his bare foot and hauled it up in his lap. "Daddy's gotcha." Carlos didn't struggle because there was never any point. Fighting just made Dad angry.

He closed his eyes and waited for the sound of a zipper, but instead he felt a sharp prick in his foot, in-between his toes. It was white hot and caught him by surprise. It felt like something had bitten him. He looked and saw Dad injecting him with the needle.

"Dad, no, no." He didn't want to be like Dad. Drugs were so bad. They'd ruined his family. They'd been happy once, him and Juan and Dad and Mom. They'd been happy before drugs got into their lives and Dad's body.

"Relax Carlos." Dad stroked the skin at the top of his foot. "This is going to make your pain go away."

"Dad…" He trailed off because he was starting to feel it. He couldn't describe it. The sensation washed over his body, crept from the bottoms of his feet to the top of his skull. It was warm and bright. He feels like he's floating, like he's flying. He's never been so happy. He didn't know people could be this happy. "Whoa."

"That's my boy." Dad smiled and leaned in to kiss him. Carlos was too happy to even want to fight or cry. He just let him. Let Dad push him onto his back. "I told you I'd make you feel better."


	4. ForgetMeNots

**Warnings for drug use and implied/not very graphic rape.**

* * *

><p>The sky twisted pink and broke apart. He smelled ozone and winter ice and salt mixed in with late spring snow. He tasted sugar crystals stretched thin and tugged apart. He heard Juan laughing in the wind. His skin felt warm, like he was gripped by a thousand burning needles that never hurt him. He felt alive and happy and free. He felt like he hadn't in a long time. Where he was, in the happy, wonderful place, Juan was with him and everything was great.<p>

Carlos woke up to a jet of cold water hitting him in the face and soaking through his clothes. He was sprawled on the bottom of the bathtub and his Dad was kneeling over him, smiling crookedly as he stripped of Carlos' shirt. Carlos felt nauseous and thick in the head, like he was clogged up with peanut butter and fog. He blinked and knew that if he tried to move he'd throw up.

"Gave me a scare there for a minute, buddy. Thought I'd given you too much. Looked like you were having a great time, though." Dad was high and couldn't stop laughing, smiling, twitching. Dad dropped Carlos' sopping wet t-shirt on the floor and laughed and laughed at nothing. "I told you I'd take care of you."

Dad was naked and Carlos was too gross feeling to move or even think. He let it happen. He couldn't do anything else. Dad was heavy and his arms and legs felt like noodles filled with jelly. Dad was on him and it _hurt_ and he watched a line of blood crawl red across the floor of the tub until the water swept it up and swirled it pink around the drain. He was never going to heal. He was ruined. He shivered and waited for Dad to finish. He could make out a faint reflection in the side of the tub and he saw that he was pale underneath his normal brown color.

"Dad, Dad, I don't," he said and then threw up right over the side of the tub and onto the floor. He hadn't eaten anything since before Juan died so all that came up was yellow bile and strings of saliva that stuck to his tongue, lips, chin. His stomach hurt he was so hungry.

"Goddamn, Carlos." Dad pulled out and pulled Carlos up. He wobbled on his feet but didn't fall over. Dad dragged him out of the bathroom and set him down on the couch. His Dad hadn't taken care of him in a long time. Carlos was even more surprised when his Dad brought him a bowl of cereal. The flakes were kind of soggy and the milk was a little warm but it wasn't the worst cereal he'd ever had. "Are you coming down okay? You want a little hair of the dog?"

Carlos wanted to feel happy again. He wanted to hear Juan laugh, to smell the earth and sky, to see those wonderful, vibrant colors. Drugs were bad but they made him feel so good. He could see why Dad had traded what they used to be for crack and heroin and whatever else he used. Drugs were better than the terribleness of daily life. Carlos hated heroin with everything him, but now Juan was dead and there wasn't any reason to ever be happy. No one would tickle him awake in the mornings or carry him on their back down the stairs. No one would pack him a lunch or steal him money from their Mom's purse to make sure he'd have something to eat. No one was going to warm him a can of beans and a box of macaroni and cheese for dinner. His best friend and caretaker was gone. He didn't have anything to live for anymore. He didn't have _anyone_.

"Yeah," he whispered and wondered what his Mom would say whenever she finally came home. She was at a conference again. Her third in two weeks. Sometimes he couldn't remember what she looked like or where she had the mole on her face.

"I think we're going to get along so much better now." Dad flicked the vein in his foot and put a hand on his thigh. Dad's hands were warm. Carlos didn't like the when they touched his skin. "Juan was holding us back, you and me. Your Mom and I never wanted him, you know. We wanted a girl. He was always disappointing us." Dad stuck the needle in and Carlos felt the fire that flowed into and through him. "Gonna be you and me from now on. Oh the things I show you. I'll make you feel _invincible_."

Carlos wasn't listening anymore. He was too caught up in the sensations.

Dad frowned and looked at his watch.

"Oops, we gotta go somewhere." He stumbled behind his Dad, barely able to walk. He was too distracted. "Check doesn't come in for another week and we're gonna need some more stuff, aren't we? Now that Juan is gone you're the only one who is going to be able to help me with that."

Carlos knew what he meant, but he was so high that nothing hurt. Nothing felt bad. He could only say _yes _and _okay_ if it meant that he could keep learning how to fly.

He closed his eyes and thought about Juan.


	5. Tulips

_A/N: Dedicated to someone special. You know who you are._

_To answer someone's question, Carlos is about 12 at this point in the story._

* * *

><p>Carlos spent the next five days pulled between worlds, in the land of pink and twisted sky where he was with Juan and nothing could ever hurt him. The hours he was sober, he felt like he'd been run over by a truck. His head was thick as lead. His skin was cold as peanut butter frozen in ice. He hadn't taken a shower in days and he smelled like the inside of a dirty sock.<p>

"Shit," Dad said early one morning. He rubbed the last bit of coke from the coffee table onto his teeth. "Mom's gonna be home in fifteen minutes. Go get cleaned up, I'll tidy up out here."

His blood was still in the cushions of the sofa. Dad flipped them over and moved the couch over to cover the spatter of blood on the carpet. Carlos had stopped bleeding sometime after the third day. If he had to guess, he was more torn up by this point than he was whole. There was nothing left to rip and bleed.

"How are you going to explain Juan to her?" His teeth chattered and his bones ached. He didn't care about his mom at that moment. All he wanted was some more drugs.

"Don't worry about that, go change your shirt." There was blood on the front of his shirt. His nose had bled the first few times he tried to snort. He was better at that now. The inside of his nose was nice and numb.

He put on Juan's favorite shirt. It was plain blue with a Mexican flag on the back and a picture of an eagle on a cactus with a snake in its beak on the front. Juan bought it at a Mexican pride rally earlier that year. Mom and Dad had both liked it. They said they admired Juan's initiative to embrace his culture. The culture neither of them knew. Carlos didn't speak a word of Spanish. The closest he'd ever been to Mexico was eating Mexican food.

Mom wasn't crying when he came out into the living room. Not that he had expected her to be. Mom was the one who made sure they were fed and bathed. Aside from that, she was never interested in what they did. Mom cared about Juan more than Dad did, but that didn't mean she loved him even a bit as much as Carlos. It didn't mean she could feel even a bit of sadness when she thought of Juan lying bloody in his bed.

"I brought you breakfast, Carlos." She handed him a brown paper bag. Inside were a bagel and a carton of yogurt. When he saw the food his stomach rumbled hard enough to hurt. He remembered then that he hadn't eaten in almost forty hours. "It seems we're going to be going to your brother's funeral in three days. Make sure to iron your best suit."

"Yes, ma'am," he said and bit into the bagel. It was warm and soft.

Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. He chewed and swallowed anyways. He needed some food in him to absorb the drugs.

"I'll be making your brother's arrangements in the bedroom, then I have lecture notes I need to prepare." Mom made things better. She made things function. Like they were parts of a clock she put together. All she lacked was emotional attachment. He was a cog in her smooth running machine, but not her son. "If you have any clothes you need me to wash put them in the laundry room."

"Yes ma'am," he said again, yogurt bitter at the bottom of his throat. He felt wrong, like milk left to sour. He just wanted someone to pick him up and put him back inside the fridge. "I missed you."

"Thank you." Mom patted him once on the head. He wondered why his parents were so different. Why his Dad had to touch and his mother didn't. He didn't know why, but he knew it had to be his fault. "Now go play in your room."

He lay on his bed, trembling. He was crashing hard, the drugs jerking out of him. His muscles were stiff and rubbery. There was sweat everywhere, running like rivers over his skin. He was afraid that if he didn't sit up he'd drown in it. He missed the colors, the sky as it curled and danced, a hundred different colors, sparkling so bright. Real life was cold and ugly and dirty.

Later, after Mom went to her office to work into the night, Carlos snuck into the living room and sat at his father's feet. He put his head against Dad's leg and nuzzled, soft like a kitten, affectionate like he'd seen kids do on the TV.

"I need some," he begged and there was glass inside his bones.

"Well, I'm out." Dad said. There was white underneath his nose. They'd only been out for a little while, then.

"Go get more." He knew that he'd fall apart and die without things inside him to keep him whole. He wanted to fly far away from here.

"It's expensive." Dad placed one of his thumbs against his lips. He rubbed it back and forth, smearing Carlos' mouth wet and messy. "You may need to help me out with that."

"Anything," he croaked, so sure he was dying. If he was actually dying, then that would be okay. But he wasn't, he only felt like it. The only one lucky enough to be dead was Juan. "I'll do whatever you want."

"That's my boy. Get your coat, we've got some people to see."


	6. Glory of the Snow

_For a friend._

* * *

><p>Carlos flipped the hood of his jacket up and ducked out into the early morning air.<p>

He wasn't going to stick around anymore. He had money in his pocket, blood in his veins, and his sister on his back. He didn't need his parents, his home. They just ruined everything. He wouldn't let them ruin his sister. He'd keep her safe.

When his mom had said she was pregnant, Carlos knew that it was his job to take the baby away. Two out of two of his parents' kids died or became drug addicts. What kind of record was that? He'd do better. He'd help Juanita grow up into someone strong. Someone he could be proud of. And then when he was old and gray, he'd look back and know that he'd made it up to his brother by making sure their sister turned out okay.

He hadn't been sober, honest and achingly sober, in four and a half years. He couldn't think like this. With his brain so clear. It was like running into the sliding door because the glass was too clean He was tricking himself. He needed some drugs to calm himself down, to make things real.

"Gustavo, my man," he said and he was shaking. His teeth were chattering in his mouth. He itched everywhere. "Brighten my day."

Gustavo didn't move from the bench. He flipped through the pages of his newspaper. The baby whimpered on Carlos' back.

"What's with the kid?"

"'M babysitting." He couldn't stop moving. Danced on his feet. Jiggled his hands in his pockets. Crumpled his fifty dollars into a ball. "C'mon G, I'm here every day."

Gustavo shrugged and reached into his pockets for the drugs.

"What idiot gives their baby to a teenage crack head?" Gustavo patted the seat beside him. Carlos sat down. After a minute he remembered to lean forward so he didn't squish Juanita.

"Dunno," he said. His mouth was watering. He could almost taste the drugs against his teeth. He'd be doing fine in just a few minutes.

Gustavo handed him the newspaper. Folded inside was the stuff. Carlos pulled out twenty dollars and put them into Gustavo's hands.

"Get the fuck out of here." Gustavo shoved him away. "And take the baby back to its damn parents."

"See you tomorrow!" He called out, so happy he could hardly breathe. They were going to be good. Him and Juanita.

He went to his favorite place. It was an old, abandoned apartment complex the city wasn't sure if it should rebuild or destroy. He ran up four flights of stairs to his favorite room. He put down his bag and unwrapped Juanita from her sling. She was sleeping.

Gustavo had given him crack today. It was his favorite.

A few minutes later, he was on his back, the baby on his chest. She was staring at him. Her dark eyes peeked out from beneath her pink hat. She was happy for him. He could see it. She didn't want to watch him hurt.

"I'm gonna take care of you, Juanita." She blinked and yawned. She was a good baby. If she was quiet then they could both sleep. Whoever said babies were a handful was lying. Watching them was easy. He was a better dad than his father ever was.

Juanita gurgled and drooled on his hoodie. Gross. She kept opening her mouth, then closing it. Like she was trying to find something to latch onto with her lips. Babies were so weird. He put his finger in her mouth just to see what it felt like. It was slimy and warm. She didn't have any teeth. He thought maybe she was hungry. But he'd watched his mother give her a bottle that morning. So she didn't need to eat until lunch and Carlos never felt like eating lunch, so she probably wouldn't want to eat again until dinner. And she was tiny anyways. She wouldn't need to eat that much.

But he had a bottle in his backpack that he didn't want to go bad. He sat up and pulled it out. It was cold. Milk always tasted best when it was cold. He propped Juanita in his arm, tipped the bottle up. Huh. She really had been hungry. Maybe he'd have to feed her more than he thought.

"See?" he said to no one in particular, maybe Juanita, maybe the colors inside his head. "Things are gonna be great. I got my stuff, you got your stuff, what else do we need?"


	7. Cherry Blossom

_To answer questions: Carlos is 16 here._

_Still dedicated to someone special._

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><p>Coming down made Carlos twitchy. He had to get up and keep moving or it felt like he'd come apart.<p>

Drenched in sweat, he checked on Juanita, asleep in a cardboard box in the corner, and went outside to get some air. The sun was starting to set. It hovered orange on the horizon, glittering on the surface of the sea. If he was high he'd be able to appreciate the beauty. He couldn't appreciate anything right now. He just had to move his feet to match the jackhammer of his heart in his chest. He still had some crack left, but not enough to get him through the night. And he knew better than to take more so soon. He'd overdosed once and woken up in a hospital bed. He had been fourteen then and he'd climbed out the window before the doctors came back.

Hunger was gnawing at his belly like a rat nibbling on wire. He ducked into the nearest fast food restaurant to eat. While he waited for his food to cook, he noticed the little single serving coffee creamers sitting near the soda dispenser. He walked up, pretending to be interested in napkins, and stuffed his pockets full. The creamers were milk. He could use the money he saved on buying formula to use for more drugs. Juanita wouldn't know the difference.

His hamburger was warm and greasy. He only ate it to get his stomach to stop hurting. He'd been too busy to eat the day before. He was fine, even if he could kind of see his bones. He looked like a crack addict now. He was thin. He had bad sinuses and even worse veins. He looked like something wrecked and dragged unconscious through the streets. He'd been a cute kid once. Now he was sixteen and already looked half dead.

A light shower of rain started. Carlos ran into the library to keep from getting wet. He only had one extra set of clothes to change into. He didn't want to get these clothes cold and wet. He hadn't been to the library in years. Not since Juan had taken him to check out Batman comic books. It felt like a long, long time ago. It felt like it had been a different life. Like he had been a different person. He couldn't remember the little boy he used to be.

The librarian, pretty, young, took one look at him and sighed. People knew the second they saw him. He didn't do a very good job of hiding it. At home he did but out in the real world, with strangers, it didn't matter what he let them see. The term was functional addict, technically. It was easier not to have to pretend to be functional. He could just walk around, strung-out, fucked up, and not care what people had to say.

"Oh honey," she said, sadly. She slid him a pamphlet. The paper was white and green.

"No thank you." He wasn't interested in advertisements for rehab or NA. He liked being what he was, who he was, doing the stuff he did.

She didn't press him, but left the pamphlet on the table beside him. He sat and looked out the window and waited for a break in the rain. It was getting dark. He hadn't fed Juanita since that morning. He'd pretty much passed out once he fed her. Who knows what she'd done while he'd been out. She was only a month and a half old, maybe, so she probably just slept. He couldn't remember when she was born exactly. He had a fuzzy memory of his parents bringing her home from the hospital. He just didn't know the day or time. He wasn't even entirely sure Juanita was her real name. He thought it suited her better, whatever her name might actually be. His parents didn't know shit about raising babies and loving kids. He'd do their job for them.

Because he was bored, he eventually picked up the pamphlet. It was an advertisement for an anonymous online help service. It was called _Teen Talk_. It was teenagers talking to other teenagers. All counselors were trained. It was like a suicide hotline, apparently, just on the internet, where kids could go to talk about things like being gay or bullied or raped and be met with positive reinforcement and offered numbers for counseling and law enforcement services. It sounded totally stupid. Telling some stranger in a chat room he liked crack wasn't going to magically cure him. He didn't _want_ to be cured.

Still, it was raining outside. The sky was a shade between black and gray. There was water running down the sidewalks. He couldn't go back to the abandoned apartment complex.

He logged onto one of the library computers and typed in the web address.


	8. Rapeseed

_Dedicated to someone special. I love you, dude._

* * *

><p>Logan was half asleep at his desk when his laptop pinged to alert him of a new instant message.<p>

He excitedly opened the browser window. He'd enrolled in the after school counseling program as a way to help people and pad his resume for college. Two birds with one stone. He'd always been pretty good at giving advice.

**BigTimeRush: wut r u wearin?**

Logan frowned and leaned back in his seat.

**LoganMitchell: A sweatervest. This isn't omegle or chatroulette, go somewhere else if you want cyber sex.**

**BigTimeRush: oh, ur a dude**

**LoganMitchell: I'm logging off, this isn't funny.**

**BigTimeRush: srry, right, this is srs. im supposed 2 tell u stuff?**

Logan softened. This person might need him. He'd learned in psychology class that humor was usually a defense mechanism. This guy could have serious issues he needed to discuss.

**LoganMitchell: Only what you feel comfortable disclosing. Anything you tell me is confidential.**

**BigTimeRush: confidential?**

**LoganMitchell: It means I won't tell anyone. Whatever you say, I have to keep it a secret. Private. Understand?**

**BigTimeRush: yeah, srry, i dropped out of skool when i wuz 13**

Logan's heart didn't just soften, it melted and pooled around his feet. This poor guy. The thought of anyone not getting a proper education always made Logan sad.

**LoganMitchell: How old are you?**

**BigTimeRush: 16, ill b 17 in a cuple months**

**LoganMitchell: It's not too late for you to go back to school. I could help you get the paperwork together. You could even just study to try and get your GED.**

**BigTimeRush: no thnks, i h8 skool**

**LoganMitchell: It's always an option, if you change your mind.**

**BigTimeRush: k**

**LoganMitchell: Is there anything you'd like to talk about? How did you find out about this chatroom?**

**BigTimeRush: herd about it the library**

**LoganMitchell: You like to read?**

**BigTimeRush: no**

**LoganMitchell: Then why are you in the library?**

**BigTimeRush: its raining, dont wanna b cold**

Logan paused for a few moments. He tried to figure out what to say. The conversation was forced and awkward at best.

**LoganMitchell: I like your screenname, what's it mean?**

**BigTimeRush: i play baseball, its like the rush u get when u score a touchdown during fastbreak**

**LoganMitchell: LOL, funny.**

**BigTimeRush: this chatting thing sux, wuts the point?**

**LoganMitchell: I'm supposed to help you with your problems, you know, offer you advice. Be your friend.**

**BigTimeRush: rlly?**

**LoganMitchell: Really. Isn't that why you logged on? To get help?**

**BigTimeRush: i wuz just bored**

**LoganMitchell: It's okay if you don't want to talk about stuff right now. Why don't you tell me about yourself?**

**BigTimeRush: uh, shur**

**BigTimeRush: im from LA**

**BigTimeRush: my names carlos**

**LoganMitchell: ¿Habla español?**

**BigTimeRush: dude thats racist**

**LoganMitchell: Sorry**

**BigTimeRush: jk jk no no habla español**

**LoganMitchell: Hablo***

**BigTimeRush: ?**

**LoganMitchell: Nevermid**

**LoganMitchell: Are you sure there's nothing on your mind, Carlos?**

**BigTimeRush: idk, wut do u want me 2 say**

**LoganMitchell: Is there anything bothering you?**

**BigTimeRush: my brothers dead**

**BigTimeRush: he killed himself when i was 12**

**BigTimeRush: it was my fault**

**BigTimeRush: my dads fault**

**BigTimeRush: he looked out 4 me but no1 did it 4 him**

**LoganMitchell: How could it be either of your faults? Suicide isn't anyone's fault.**

**BigTimeRush: my dad came 4 me instead of juan**

**BigTimeRush: juan felt guilty**

**BigTimeRush: he wanted dad 2 take him but he wuldnt**

**BigTimeRush: said juan was 2 old**

**LoganMitchell: What…what did your father want you to do?**

**BigTimeRush: wut do u think**

**BigTimeRush: he didnt hav money**

**BigTimeRush: traded me instead**

Logan felt sadness in his throat. He blinked away tears. He'd been trained for things like this, but not for _this_.

**LoganMitchell: Your father sexually abused you?**

**BigTimeRush: yeah & he let his dealers do it 2**

**BigTimeRush: but that was a long time ago**

**BigTimeRush: im 16 now**

**BigTimeRush: no1 does it 2 me nemore**

**LoganMitchell: There's places you can go for counseling. I have some numbers and addresses of Rape Crises centers and listings for meetings for people who have been sexually abused. Just hold on while I get them…**

**BigTimeRush: no thnks**

**BigTimeRush has disconnected**

Logan stared at the screen. He felt like the biggest failure on Earth. His one chance to help and he'd blown it. He was probably never going to hear from this Carlos kid again. But, maybe, and he doubted it was true, maybe just talking had made Carlos feel better and he'd be back.

The rain let up as Logan began his walk home. He didn't live far from the center and now that the rain was gone the night was warm and clear. The streetlights were on. There were a few cars on the street. It was one of the nicest nights of the summer.

He turned the corner near the public library and collided with someone. He got knocked backward. The guy fell down too.

"Sorry," he said, reaching out a hand to help the guy up.

He noticed a plastic bag had fallen out of the guy's pocket. The clear plastic bag had little white things in it. Things that looked like rocks or deformed lumps of sugar. Logan knew they were neither, though. He'd taken D.A.R.E. He'd been forced to listen to enough drug prevention lectures to know what that stuff was.

"Whatever." The guy was his age, maybe a little younger. He looked sick. Strung out. Totally wrecked. It was always really sad to see junkies. It made Logan wonder what kind of people they had been before the drugs. Or who they could have been in the future.

The dude grabbed his bag of crack up off the streets and stuffed it into his pocket Then he ran away.

Logan felt sorry for him.


	9. Madagascar Jasmine

_To you know who._

* * *

><p>Juanita was crying when Carlos got to the abandoned apartment building. She sounded like she'd been crying for a long time. Her face was scrunched up and red. Her diaper was full. He picked her up. She was wet. Water must have filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling or blown in through the shattered window.<p>

"Don't worry," he said as he picked Juanita up, stripped her out of her wet clothes. Then he changed her and tossed the dirty diaper out the window. Her cries settled to hiccupping whines. He kisses her on the forehead. "I told you I'd take good care of you."

He decided that he should give her a bath to make her happy. He'd always loved baths when he was little. They were his favorite part of the day.

The bathtub in the empty apartment is dirty. The porcelain is stained brown. The water doesn't run. The pipes have dripped rust around the drain. It doesn't look clean enough for him to put Juanita in. He found a bucket in the hall. Rainwater had collected in it. It was a little cloudy, there were a few flecks of paint, but it wasn't too dirty. He dragged the bucket into the room and picked Juanita up from her cardboard box bed. She cried when he first dipped her in, probably because the water was a little cold, but then she moved her arms a bit, splashing in the water. She looked more confused than upset. Like she didn't know what was happening but liked it.

Carlos realized he was sweating. His face hurt, his lungs, his teeth. He needed some of that crack he bought after leaving the library. He'd promised himself he would try to make it last this time, and he would, he just needed a taste to make himself steady. He couldn't take good care of Juanita when he was trembling and sick, too focused on how bad he needed to be high. He would take care of her better once his head was clear. Drugs made him think better. Made him smarter. Made him calm. The colors were relaxing; maybe if he was high Juanita could see them too.

He set her gently down into the bucket and ran to get his stuff. It only took a few minutes, a little heat from his lighter, then he was on his way to soaring. Then he went back and picked Juanita up out of the bucket. She seemed happier. She was quiet and sleepy. She was clean. He only wished he'd had some baby shampoo to wash her hair with so she'd smell fresh. She gurgled a little as he put a fresh diaper on her and wrapped her up in his hoodie to keep her warm while her clothes dried.

She started crying again. That's when he remembered he'd forgotten to feed her lunch. He'd forgotten to feed her dinner too. There was enough formula left for one bottle, but he didn't want to run out too quick, so he emptied half into the spare bottle and poured some of the stolen creamers into the bottle. Juanita made greedy noises as she ate.

A bottle rattled in the hallway. Glass crunched under a foot. Carlos put Juanita back in her box and crept out to look.

There was a girl rooting through one of the rooms. Her short curly hair was messy and tangled. Her arms and legs were thin. She was skinny, like a skeleton, all ribs and bony hips. She looked up at him and he knew from the edge to her eye, desperation sharp as a razor, that she was just like him.

"Heeeeey," he said, warm, happy. The stuff he'd had was really starting to kick in.

She raised an eyebrow at him, took him in, and smiled.

"You got some?"

"Maybe, baby." He laughed. She looked really pretty now, shining with colors. Beer goggles, sort of. He thought she had probably been pretty before. Her face wasn't too bad, but she was missing a few of her front teeth. That's the one thing he was afraid would happen to him, that he'd lose his teeth. He brushed four times a day but by the time it got that bad, he'd be close to dead anyways.

"You willing to share?"

"I'm Carlos." He'd met tons of other addicts before. They weren't very friendly unless they knew you could get them some drugs. He was the same way. He hated most people. People just sucked.

"Jennifer," she said, twitching. She had sweat beading along her forehead, droplets shining like diamonds in her hair. "Please, if you have some, I'll give you whatever I have."

He could always buy more crack. He was okay for right now. He didn't _need_ the rest, not if she was willing to pay. He could charge her more for it than he paid. Then he could go to Gustavo and get even more.

"Show me." She had a crumpled five in her pocket, three dollar bills in her shoe. The bottom of her purse that held her crack pipe was covered in nickels. Nine-seventy-five total. Not enough to buy shit. He could give her half a rock if he was feeling generous.

He wasn't really sure how generous he was feeling. He couldn't feel anything but happy. "Not enough," he said eventually, shaking his head. It felt cool, the way his muscles worked, like they were on a spring.

"I'll do anything," she whispered, pleading. He remembered this. He'd been through this all before. It's like his life, only now he's on the outside, looking in.

"Yeah?" He asked, excited. No one had _ever_.

"Yeah," she said, so sweetly. Pretty cracked lips and bony face. She really was beautiful underneath. She slid to her knees, humming, singing pretty sounds.

He leaned back against the damp concrete and let her do her thing.


End file.
